


On the Importance of Names

by Chatote



Category: Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Angst, Aziraphale helps, Introspection, M/M, reflection about names and death
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-26
Updated: 2018-01-26
Packaged: 2019-03-09 18:52:15
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,093
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13487607
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Chatote/pseuds/Chatote
Summary: Where do demons go when they die?





	On the Importance of Names

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by this tumblr post: https://flashbastardwithsunglasses.tumblr.com/post/169833935766/fomoriii-crowleygay-what-the-fuck-does-the-j

It’s funny how important names are, Crowley mused. Before him, the lake was raging. Angry waves were being thrown on the shore, each hit harshly digging into the cliff. The trees were cracking and bending, as if trying to escape the oncoming storm, but trapped by their roots in the unyielding earth. The clouds were dark and low in the sky, announcing a storm like Great Britain hadn’t seen in centuries—he’d know, he was there. 

A given name, the one that identify one through their whole life, was—most of the time—given by one’s parents. How ironic, that the people who know you the least shall choose such an important part of your life, only mere hours after your birth. Obviously, Go- _They_ had chosen their children’s names. Gabriel, Michael and Raphael. Urial, Samael (1) and Sandalphon (2). 

“Why this name?“ people often asked. “Why did you choose this name?“ Crowley had always thought that giving a name to someone was a form of control. After all, no one expected Samael to bring people back to life, or Sandalphon to start wars. 

The demon took a few steps toward the lake. Rain was pouring and piercing the water like a blade pierces flesh, its music hard and arrhythmic. The wind was blowing with all its might, howling between branches and making leaves dance in whirlwinds.. Thunder roared and, for a second, silence fell. The world stilled. Crowley closed his eyes and breathed deeply. The air tasted like salt and pollution. Fury and disappointment. 

Too soon, the elements returned to their fight. Nature against Nature, like it had been so long ago when Mankind had run from the Garden toward freedom and misery. 

It was easy for someone to change their name, officially at least. Nowadays, in the 21st century, one trip to the City House and the process was underway. It was, however, much harder to make people understand that who you were—the person they thought you were—had changed without them necessarily seeing it. By changing one’s name, one was slicing the links between the present and the past. Who they had been—who their close ones had thought they were—and their true self. In Crowley’s opinion, it oughted to be celebrated. It takes courage to scream its wrongness to the world. 

On the other shore, water and earth were melting, making it impossible to discern where one began and the other ended. Cold drops were hitting Crowley’s face like bullets of ice. He could make out the lines of a huge rock shaped like an eagle not far from where he stood. 

Most importantly, a given name is an identification. Friends, colleagues, family—they all know you with your name. Without it, who are you? How would people know you? How would they think about you? Name is existence. Without a name, one doesn’t exist. ‘Table’ is a name. ‘Horse’ is a name. ‘Oscar’ is a name. Fear comes with the unknown, and the unknown is nameless. Descarte once said ‘I think, therefore I am’, to which Crowley would reply ‘I am named, therefore I am’.

The raven who cried during this stormy night, shaking Crowley out of his revery, had a name. The demon took his sunglasses off—the darkness and the rain made it impossible to see—and pushed a drenched lock of hair out of his face. His soaked clothes were clinging to his skin and turning every movement he made into a deeply uncomfortable experience. 

Here, lost in the deserted countryside of Great Britain, between lakes, meadows and storms, no one, not even Hastur or Ligur or Belzebuth themselves, would follow him. Here, he was safe. 

In conclusion, if one asked Crowley, his opinion would be quite clear. It takes strength to be who you are. 

 

* * *

In the beginning, once They had given life to all Their children, They held a ceremony to name them all.

The children of God had kneeled around Them in a perfect circle. They had begun with the Archangels, and in the seventh position had come Jophiel, the angel of wisdom, understanding and judgement. The angel of artists. Once the sixth angel had lined up with their predecessors behind Them,Jophiel had stood up and had walked to their creator. Like their siblings, Jophiel was struck by the beauty of the world, and in awe at Their kindness and power. Small and tall, round and thin, black and white, all sorts of figures were following the ceremony, avid to know and to help. 

Jophiel bend their head as they stopped before God. 

“Jophiel,“ Metatron, the voice of God, said, “our seventh child, do you accept what is given to you?“

“Yes,“ Jophiel answered, though they didn’t know what was given to them. “I accept.“

And the light of God touched them. 

 

Centuries later, long after the traitors had descended to Hell, Jophiel chose to join humanity on Earth. Thus, the question of their name arose. Most angels—that is, Gabriel—were in the opinion that a name given by Them shouldn’t be changed, for it was a sacred name. Jophiel, however, didn’t like the idea of walking amongst men with their heavenly name. By this time, a number of surnames had been given to them by mankind. They were Iophiel, Youfiel and Zophiel. They were Zuriel and Dina. 

Left to think on their own—not many angels dared to go against Gabriel’s opinion—Jophiel sat under the tree they had once shared with the Serpent. As the sun rose above the Eastern Gate, colouring the sky in pink and orange, it seemed to them like they could hear the sibilant voice whispering into their ear. 

_“I don’t think it's possible for you to do wrong,“_ the Serpent had said. Jophiel shivered. 

No, it wasn’t possible for them to do wrong. They were Iophiel, Youfiel, Zophiel, Zuriel and Dina. They had been named ‘Beauty of God’, they were the punisher of those who transgress against Them. Name had meanings, and Jophiel had many of them. 

With a curt nod, they made their decision. They would be all that mankind had wanted them to be. They were Aziraphale. (3)

* * *

The library smelled like ancient books, chocolate and dust. The walls were hidden behind tall bookshelves, but the painting was clearly peeling off, shreds hanging loosely from the ceiling. A dozen of houseplants—the prettiest ones in the city—were scattered around the room, adding some much needed colours to the dull black and brown. A sign on the door was displaying the word _‘Closed’_ to potential consumers. Not that it mattered. Few people were reading paper books those days.

“You should think about relocating, angel,“ Crowley said as he sunk into the old sofa, the grey leather soft under his fingers. 

Aziraphale, who was trying to add a newly-bought fedora on the already full coatrack, rose an eyebrow. “What makes you think that?“ he asked without letting the hats out of his sight.

“Dunno,“ Crowley shrugged. He looked at the trail of water running down the wall near _The Complete Oscar Wilde_. It was coming from the bathroom. There had been a leak last night—it had been fixed in a heartbeat—and another the week before. 

“Aren’t you tired of putting this place back together every day or so?“ Crowley added. 

Aziraphale managed to place his fedora between a top-hat and a beret, and was now placing _Neruda’s Poem—the 50th Golden Edition_ near _Sappho’s Fragments_. The sunlight was playing on his dark skin in an hypnotising dance.

“I like it,“ he answered. “It reminds me of the one I had in Soho, a few centuries back. You remember?“ 

Crowley sighed. 

Of course, he remembered. It was hard to forget Armageddon, even if Armageddon hadn’t happened in the end. Behind the window, he could see a slender car racing on the road and a little girl running behind her lost balloon. Her father was screaming a few meters back, his features twisting with horror when he realised he wouldn’t be fast enough. Seconds before the accident, the car dropped dead, letting the girl go safely. 

Crowley looked away as the driver stormed out of his vehicle. He could hear the argument between the father and her, but it wasn’t his problem anymore. The girl was safe. _“I don’t think it’s possible for you to do good.“_ A smirk appeared on his lips. How things had changed. Who would have thought, back at the beginning, that a demon and an angel would turn out to be—What? Friends? That didn’t seem strong enough. Not after all they had been through and all the centuries they had shared. Hell and Heaven… Most of the time, it felt like those mighty kingdoms didn’t exist anymore. All that existed was here and now. Him and Aziraphale.

It’s funny how names work, Crowley thought. His eyes were following Aziraphale around the room. The angel was heading toward the desk, his hands unconsciously stroking the old covers as he walked past them. Jane Austen, John Milton, Mary Shelley. All dead. Even the Bentley was showing signs of fatigue, despite his tender care. 

Surnames indicate one’s belonging to a tribe, a family or a community. Here, in the 25th century, in what used to be Brazil, surnames had disappeared. It was the last success of individualism. Was it thank’s to Heaven or Hell? Who cared. Certainly not him (4). It had always seemed odd to Crowley that one should keep their family name through their life—marriage excepted. What binds a human being to their family apart from blood, genetics and a few years lived together? Nothing. And yet, many found it difficult to cross the bridge, to leave behind the one word that linked them to their past. How could one word have so much power? Why would humans want to be reassured in their origins so much? It had always fascinated him, this desire for inclusion. 

“You’re alright, dear?“ Aziraphale asked, startling his demon. Crowley shook his head and ran a hand through his messy hair. 

“Yes,“ he answered. “Just a little bit… off. Do you still have those bottles of wine from 2398?“ He jumped on his feet without waiting for the answer, and strolled toward the cupboard behind Aziraphale’s desk. The angel watched him go worriedly.

Crowley opened the cabinet and took out a dusty bottle of red wine. A smile spread on his lips when he read its name— _Moët et Chandon_. He grabbed two glasses and turned around, ready to serve, when Aziraphale’s hand on his wrist made him froze in motion. 

The angel’s brown eyes seemed to pierce him through and through. He had changed quite a lot since his last body, going from the white English professor to the black French historian. Crowley himself had kept the same old shape and the same old look. There were few relics of the past—an old computer, a picture of the Titanic taken by Crowley, a flip-flop phone, the painting of a rose Aziraphale had been offered in the 14th century. All things come to past, after all. Even those you cherish the most. 

“Crowley,“ Aziraphale said softly yet firmly, “are you alright?“ The demon gulped. His vision blurred for a moment, and his rapid blinking did nothing to reassure the angel. 

It smelled like… Like Aziraphale, Crowley realised. It was the smell of warm tea and cold winters spent reading a book, curled up near a fire. The silence was deafening around them, thanks to the soundproof walls. The low buzzing of Aziraphale’s 20th century computer was the only audible noise. 

Staring into Aziraphale’s eyes, Crowley couldn’t escape. His heartbeat was pounding in his ears, his hands began to tremble, making the glasses twinkle against each other. Aziraphale reacted just in time, swapping his arm under his friend’s shoulder to stop the fall. A second later and Crowley would have ended on the floor.

“Come on,“ the angel groaned, half-carrying the other one to the sofa. They made it, eventually. Crowley, whose eyes were closed to the world, felt Aziraphale sat at his side. A hand came stroking his neck like it had stroke the old fragile books minutes earlier. A tremor ran down the demon’s back. 

“What is it, dear?“ Aziraphale whispered. 

It took some time for Crowley to put his thoughts together, and some more to decide whether to tell the truth or lie. 

“Where do demons go when they die?“ he finally uttered. Aziraphale’s warm hand on his skin went still. 

* * *

When Crawly touched Earth for the first time, a sense of freedom like they hadn’t felt since the Fall washed over them.

They took a deep breath. The pure air cleaned their body like fire purifies water. There wasn’t many things on Earth, at this time. Humans were just born and small villages were dispersed between hills and valleys, giving immortal beings far enough space to play. The demon had landed near a lake. They gazed around at their unfamiliar surroundings. The trees were rare and distant from each other. A rock shaped like an eagle was dressed in the distance. Crawly took a prudent step backward. If they remembered correctly, They had made eagles the eaters of snakes. 

Crawly turned away from this sight and wandered into the meadow. Birds were chirping in the distance like two elders sharing gossips. The thought of changing their name was old. Like they had told the angel, the name Hell had given them didn’t feel like… didn’t feel like _them_. It seemed wrong for people they didn’t know and who didn’t know them to give them a name they would keep for the whole of eternity. 

A white cloud flew over the sun, hiding its rays and throwing a shadow over the world for a few seconds. A shiver shook the demon’s body, and they tightened their coat around their shoulders. The grass was swaying gently under the wind, its emerald green spreading left and right, and disappearing into the horizon. A bee flee near Crawly’s ear, its drone like the low growl of a young dog to the unaccustomed—Hell was both much louder and much quieter—and landed on a blue wildflower. 

The difficulty was, Crawly thought as they watched nature unfold around them, how should they choose a name when they didn’t know—weren’t sure—who they were yet? It couldn’t be too different from ‘Crawly’, if Hell was to accept the change. A sight escaped their lips. Demons, like angels, weren’t supposed to have free will. For sure, they had enough liberty to accomplish their missions as they thought best, but that was mostly it. 

As their eyes flew over the unlimited space around them, Crawly felt like a spider in a jar, able to see the outside world, yet forbidden to ever reach it. Small victories were still victories, they reflected as they took a decided step forward, their foot slipping on a wet rock and sending splashes of mud on their trousers. Crowley would do for now. 

 

“What’s your name?“ the bartender—Mark?—repeated despite Crowley’s answer. The demon, who was much smaller than the tall burly man before him, refrained from throwing the beer onto his opponent.

“Crow-ley,“ he said slowly one more time. The curfew was long past, but the small bar was still crowded, and the sounds of chatters and laughs were ringing in his head.

“Your _full_ name,“ Mark said, clearly on his way to exasperation. 

The taste of bad beer lingered on Crowley’s tongue. The world around him was starting to turn round and round, but he took another gulp. He wasn’t drunk enough for this. He clacked his tongue, enjoying the deep frown on the bartender’s face. 

“Why?“

“We have to report the name of all the people who enter the bar,“ Mark replied. “Order of the Queen.“ Crowley nodded. 

He wasn’t a bad guy, this man. The demon had come to this bar several times before, even tried to tempt him once or twice, without success. Not that he only had failures, mind you. There was quotas to reach, and Hastur made sure all the missions were accomplished rightfully. If Crowley made sure to be in the line when it came to official business—he had no desire to be sent back down— when it came to unofficial freelance ones, he was what one would call ‘liberal’. 

“Anthony Crowley,“ he answered, with a playful wink. The man, oblivious, scribbled a few words on a dirty piece of paper and turned to his other clients. 

Crowley had never needed a given name before, but the choice seemed right. Cleopatra had been a good friend of his, and between Shakespeare’s play in the theatres again and this bartender’s name, it had been natural. 

Crowley gulped down the rest of his drink. Anthony Crowley. He liked it. 

 

The sun was hight above the Eiffel Tower. The year was 1901, and Crowley, well-rested after his long sleep, had decided to enjoy the 20th century France as much as he could. 

A group of tourists in horrible clothes walked past the bench he was sat on and headed toward the monument. A dog ran across the street and barked after a sputtering black car. Black smoke was coming out of it and disappearing into the air. The bells of Notre-Dame rung midday. Soon, dozens of workers would emerge from their offices and factories, and barge into local restaurants where they would take their daily meals, like they did on every day of their uneventful lives. 

Crowley leaned back into the seat and readjusted his sunglasses. Aziraphale was late. It wasn’t surprising since the angel was loose in a city full of small libraries and other curiosities. In truth, Crowley felt quite proud of it. Not so long ago, Aziraphale would have shrieked at the idea of being late. To be fair, not so long ago, Crowley would have shrieked at the idea of being early. 

He had missed the angel, though. Waking up after one hundred years felt refreshing, but it meant one had a lot to catch on. Who had died, who had lived, what had been created, which wars had been fought andan endless list of similar questions. Meeting him in London by chance, merely a few days after waking up, had been a gift. Aziraphale hadn’t changed at all. His curly blond hair, his handmade clothes, the way he said ‘ineffability’ as if it was the answer to every problem, the freckle on the left side of his nose. All was there. 

“Agatha Mary Clarissa Miller, come back here!“ a woman roared after a small girl. Summer was always the time for family vacations, it seemed. 

The thought of having a middle name had been nagging Crowley for some time. It seemed to give more taste to a name. Like a touch of lemon on a strawberry ice-cream. It was another door to someone’s soul, another dimension of their life. Catching sight of a tall man wearing a white and pink suit and a rainbow scarf, Crowley stood up and waved at him. 

As he watched him come close, Crowley was reminded of the first time he had seen the angel. 

Every entity had been at the Naming Ceremony—that was the name Crowley had given it. Thus, it was natural that Crowley had been there too. He didn’t remember which name had been his, the names of those who had fallen had been erased from memories and only Them remembered. However, he could still see, when he closed his eyes, the seventh angel standing up and walking majestically toward Them, and the name echoing through Heaven. 

“Why are you smiling, dear?“ Aziraphale, who was beaming himself, asked. 

“I could return the question, angel,“ Crowley said, unsuccessfully trying to hide his joyous grin. 

This night, the demon made a decision. And, with this decision, Anthony Jophiel Crowley cut the last ropes tying him to his past self, and became his own. 

* * *

It takes strength to be who you are. That was something Anthony J. Crowley had realised a long time ago. It had taken him an excessively long time to find himself, but once he had, he had held on it and never let go. 

He wasn’t going to regret it now. 

Someone once said ‘In life, everything has a cost’, and though they might have been talking about capitalism, Crowley couldn’t disagree. Everything has a cost, whether this everything is truth or lie, strength or weakness, kindness or cruelty, a shelf of books or a brand new yacht.

At this very moment, Crowley was paying the price of his existence. 

“DEMONS DON’T DISOBEY,“ Belzebuth had said before throwing him into the flames.

At least, they didn’t know about Aziraphale. Crowley could take comfort in that. Of the two things in his life that could have lead to this moment, it had been him and not his angel. His angel was safe. 

Flames were licking his body. The putrid odour of burned flesh was making it hard to breath. Every movement Crowley could make was agony. He tried to look around, but sand flew into his eyes. He attempted to speak, to explain, to apologise, but all that came out was a scream. He could hear shoutings and cries. Were they real or not, that was a mystery. There was blood on his lips, and a metallic taste in his mouth. Strength was sweeping away, leaving him sprawled on a floor of lava. 

“Where do demons go when they die?“ he had once asked his angel. Aziraphale had stayed silent long enough for Crowley to think he had made a mistake. What was he doing, sharing his fear of death with another eternal being.

“Do you know why Heaven as so much power?“ Aziraphale had murmured, so low Crowley had barely heard it. It was as if the angel feared his own words. “There has been many writings about it, dear,“ he had continued without waiting for an answer. “There is, however, one that comes quite frequently, in every culture of every time and country that has ever existed. According to many, one’s power over you only depends on how much power you allow them to have. Applying it to beliefs and whether demons go—whether _anyone_ goes to Heaven or Hell, or somewhere else, only depends on how much power they give to Heaven, to Hell, and to this other place. In the end, it’s your choice. Always your choice. Now, I can’t say if I agree with it or not—“ he glanced at the ceiling— “but it’s worth a thought.“

Flaming swords were printed on his eyelids. His wings shook miserably. The existence of water and cold was put on hold. He couldn’t say where pain began nor where it ended. Cruel laughs mocked his torment. His name was ushered between the spectators, warning all demons from going against their Lord. Anger, fear, sadness and despair were cutting the atmosphere in thousand pieces, as if a wall of emotions was building itself between the victim and his aggressors. 

Yet, despite all this, a smile appeared on Crowley’s face, and peace lightened his features. Pictures flashed in his mind. The Bentley—Aziraphale—His houseplants—Aziraphale and him at the Ritz—Stopping Armageddon—Queen—Aziraphale and him getting drunk in a bookshop—Humans—The M25—Laughs—The Bentley—Aziraphale.

Where do demons go when they die? When face to face with death, whether angel, demon or human, you are alone. All else looses its meaning. The Grim Reaper only cares about one thing, and it isn’t your past, your family or your job. It’s you. 

In conclusion, if one asked Crowley, his opinion would be quite clear. First of all, finding out who you are is a long, exhausting road filled with ambushes, blind alleys and traps. Second of all, it takes strength to be who you are and whatever the price is, it’s always worth it.

 

 

  1. Samael (archangel): _Venom of God_ , angel of death
  2. Sandalphon (archangel): _Bringing together_ , brings mankind together
  3. Later, Aziraphale would realise how little his name resemble those that mankind had given him, but since no one else knew why they had chosen this very name, he were safe from mockeries. 
  4. He did help here and there across the years, but so did Aziraphale. Both Heaven and Hell were happy with the current situation, so it was declared a common success. 



 

 

 

 

 

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> The difference between Crowley's and Aziraphale's names are—in the book—pretty interesting in my opinion. On the one hand you have Aziraphale who keeps a single uncommon name, and on the other hand you have Crowley who has chosen to not only change his name from Crawly to Crowley but also to take two given names.


End file.
